i knew thee, death
by finaljoy
Summary: Katrina knows Abraham thinks he loves her. She also knows that he believes he might just have to break her legs to make her stay still and realize she loves him back. But she has gone through heart ache, loss, persecution, and finally Purgatory. She can handle Death. She just isn't sure how much of her will be left when she does.


_AN There is an unhealthy amount of love I have for this...relationship between the Horseman and Katrina. It's so twisted but also strangely affectionate, sprinkled over with a healthy dose of obsession and possessiveness and manipulation, so good._

_This was so intense to write, though. I just HAD to get it all out before Monday, because now it's all plausible, not a fanciful canon divergence. This is a very important distinction to me._

_Also, can I just say that before I wrote this, I initially though Katrina was a little suspicious and kind of 'meh'. Now she is awesome and capable and I will pay good money to see more of her do her thing._

_**Warnings**: Copious amounts of psychological manipulation, a generous helping of physical and mental abuse, brief mentions of canon typical violence_

* * *

It had been hours. Katrina's wrists ached from their bindings, her stomach had turned inside out from hunger, and every shred of her demanded water. She had spent the last couple of centuries in Purgatory, where pain was all of the mind. The physicality of living was almost overwhelming to her, making everything about her current state feel worse. She almost wanted the Horseman to return, just so she could have something other than her acute misery to focus on.

She had to admit, though, whatever plan he had, the Horseman was very clever about it, making her sit still when she wanted to sprint until her legs broke, and making her stare at bread she could not touch.

When he did come in, she was so drained that she did not even open her eyes. His thunder footsteps came closer until they finally stopped before her, but she still couldn't find the strength.

They waited for the other to break, but he was a man that had turned into Death. Time did not count for him. Nor did the horrid hunger.

Katrina looked up at him, flat and expectant.

"Well?" she asked, voice like a dry riverbed; flaky and hardly any use. He regarded her for a long moment, then gestured at the loaf on the table. Katrina couldn't take her eyes off it when she gave the slight nod. As he moved, she continued to watch the bread, breathless with hope, but then she realized he wasn't going to untie her. She stared at him, confusion scrawled across her face.

"I will not run away," she promised, hoping this was what he wanted. He still did not move. "_Please,_" she said. She sounded pathetic.

The Horseman picked up the bread. He tore off a piece, then held it out to her. She frowned, and tugged on her bonds, but he did not move.

Realization hit her, and Katrina flushed with indignity.

"I will _not_ eat out of your hand," she spat, self-righteous anger making her forget how absolutely weak she felt. He waited for a beat, then set the bread back down on the table, and began walking away. He had almost made it to the door when she broke.

_"Wait,_" she gasped, straining forward in her chair, "Please, wait, I—please."

The Horseman stopped, but did not turn around.

"I'll do it," she muttered, feeling the defeat carve itself into her bones. The Horseman turned back to face her, as if to say _well done,_ and then came back to the table. He picked up the piece of bread, and as before, held it out to her.

Katrina dropped her eyes and ate it. The bread was at once both the most wonderful thing she had ever eaten, and the most painful. It was hard from sitting out, and she found it difficult to swallow, the crust grating against her throat. Then again, Katrina felt like even porridge would be difficult to force down.

The Horseman tore off another piece, and she choked that one down as well. She refused to look at him, hating both herself and him for ending up in this situation. After the fourth piece, Katrina turned her head away, unable to make herself eat any more. She needed water now, the bread weighing like rocks on her stomach. She needed water, and yet this she swore to herself she would not ask for.

He seemed satisfied with her, as he set the bread down, and left the room. Katrina hung her head, wanting to cry, but too afraid of wasting water to shed the tears.

A few moments later, she heard the Horseman's footsteps again. She expected him to walk back through the room and not pay her any notice, but his boots stopped just in her line of sight. Katrina took a moment, then looked at him.

He was holding a flask. This time, it was not a surprise when he undid the flask and held it out to her. She was too desperate to bother protesting, already straining to take a drink.

It was a blessing on her dry throat, a grace she had never imagined to exist. Katrina tried to drink the entire thing, but he pulled it away from her. She stared at him, almost feeling betrayed, then he tipped it back toward her mouth.

He was trying to _help_ her, to keep her from making herself sick. The thought made her throat tighten in a way that thirst never had.

* * *

She found herself waiting for the sun. He could not move about in it, and that was surely the time she would do…whatever it was she eventually came up with. At least during the day, she reassured herself, she would not have to worry about him approaching her.

The ceiling, of course was in cursedly good shape.

She awoke to the sound of his footsteps coming closer, and then he was before her, imposing as ever. She glanced around the room, noting the tightly shuttered windows, and tried to tuck away the disappointment in her stomach. Katrina stared him down, wondering what was next.

The Horseman put the flask and an apple on the table before her, large and dappled yellow and red. Katrina gave him a look, wondering if he was planning on feeding her that as well. He walked behind her as before, but this time, there was no knife. He picked at the bindings, though whether he didn't trust her with a knife, or because he wanted the intimacy of the touch, she couldn't be bothered to guess. Her thoughts were only on the food, and the moment she was free, she pushed herself forward and started eating. She felt like an animal.

He had watched her eat, completely impassive. Now, that she was done, though, he pushed her back down into the chair, and redid the cord around her wrists. Katrina closed her eyes, wishing she had tried walking at least a little bit.

The Horseman left the room. Katrina wondered how long she could do this.

* * *

Her days were all dreadfully similar. The Horseman would come, allow her to eat, then tie her back up. He didn't make her eat while bound again, but she supposed that if she acted up in any way, they would be back to it. Twice he let her walk around the room, which had been a bitter relief. This time, Katrina thought things through enough to keep herself from attempting to smuggle some sort of tool back to her seat. The entire time, he had watched her. At least, Katrina assumed that's what passed for watching. She was completely put off by his lack of a head, but he adjusted himself from time to time to make sure that he faced her.

Sometimes, at night, he made her wear the necklace. It was almost disconcerting, seeing Abraham where a soulless slave had been sitting just moments before. Like the first time, he was almost gentle. That razor edge was still there, in his smile and hiding in his eyes. He was too calm to be Abraham, though. He had been so full of energy in life, his emotion filling the room and affecting everyone. Now, he was just cold.

After a couple of strained conversations, he let her sit unbound. Katrina took the liberty to stand and lean against a wall, but she stayed in his line of sight and away from the windows. Him chasing after her once had been terrifying enough.

Most of their conversations were recollections, and almost could-have-beens. Abraham's voice would turn almost soft then, as he recalled the paintings and the drapes and the luxury that had once been his domain. Katrina played along, because there was something _different_ about him like this, something less animalistic and wicked. She had been wrong, it seemed. The vague desperation about him could have been nothing but human.

Each little talk made Katrina feel even more sad. She had not loved Abraham, but she had cared for him, she had missed him. And when faced with the shadow before her now, it was enough to make her heart ache.

* * *

To pass the time, Katrina sang. Every little ditty and rhyme she had learned as a child were pulled out in an effort to fill up the day, and to whittle away the night. She didn't care that the Horseman was there to listen, because she wasn't singing for him. She may have been in his cage, but she would never be his lark.

As she sang, Katrina plotted, trying to figure out some sort of plan to _get out._ Ichabod would be nearly mad with worry (apparently the threats about his immediate death had been empty…for the moment), and the exact thing she did not want was to have him come charging in, careless in his efforts to save her. No, there were bigger things to take care of, like getting the Second Witness out of Purgatory, and beating back Moloch's forces. She prayed that he prioritized, even though it made her stomach clench, because that meant she would have to get herself out.

Even though she erred on the side of caution, Katrina refused to just _give in_ to the Horseman. She sang in French to spite him, recalling all sorts of patriotic wounds, if indeed that sort of thing still bothered him. She sang church hymns, songs of God vanquishing the Devil, anything to show that she _would not give._ And, when she was feeling especially daring, she sang songs about lovers who found each other, no matter the odds. He never seemed to care enough to stop her, even though she sang even louder whenever she heard his footsteps approach.

And as she sang, a plan came together. It was weak, but it was something she _had_ to try.

_When the last trumpet's awful voice  
This rending earth shall shake;  
When op'ning graves shall yield their charge  
And dust to life awake_

Katrina rubbed her wrists together, trying to wear away the bindings. Her wrists already ached from the casual wear of just having the cords on, but she would continue until she _bled._

_Those bodies that corrupted fell,  
Shall incorrupt arise,  
And mortal forms shall spring to life  
Immortal in the skies._

She felt her skin tear, heat dragging itself up her arm in the most unpleasant way possible. She grit her teeth and kept singing, tried to keep the pain from her voice. The bindings were a little looser.

_Behold, what heav'nly prophets sung  
Is now at last fulfilled;  
And Death yields up his ancient reign,  
And, vanquished, quits the field._

Katrina closed her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek, feeling the blood now, making her skin crawl as it pricked at her skin. Her singing had turned into more of a humming now, halfhearted yet passable. Her wrists felt hot and dry and horribly abused, but if she really _pulled,_ maybe her hand would come free...  
Her hand came out. Katrina gasped in relief, but quickly disguised it as just another inhale for the song. She listened carefully, trying to remember where she had heard the Horseman last. On the opposite side of the building, she thought, away from the strong noon sun. Then that would at least give her time to get out and into the sunlight before he would be upon her. And then, hopefully it would be too painful for him to continue.

It was a paltry hope, but it was also all she had.

Katrina eased up out of her chair, praying that the floor would not squeak. She edged around the table towards the windows directly facing the sunlight. She held her breath, as if that would help anything, and eased closer…closer…

His footsteps sounded, much closer than she had expected. Katrina made a quick decision, realizing that he would be able to see her empty chair soon, and then it would be all over. She sprinted toward the window, and yanked both shutters and window open. He was in the room, his strides quick and angry. Katrina vaulted herself up, trying to force her body through, desperate, determined, wanting to scream but too terrified to do so.

His hand caught her ankle, and Katrina instantly kicked out. He absorbed her blow, and pulled her leg back. She twisted, her back slamming into the window frame, but she ignored it, lashing out crazily with her legs, hoping to break his grip. Katrina braced her hands on both sides of the window and _heaved_, managing to pull him just a little bit closer to the window.

His hands hissed and steamed, in the sunlight, and she felt his grip tighten from pain. She closed her eyes and tried to pull herself away, heart shrieking in her chest, but then he grabbed hold of her skirt, high, near her waist, and then she was being yanked back through the window.

Katrina tried struggling briefly as he jerked her away from the window, but then he grabbed hold of her wrist, hard enough to make her think the bones were creaking. He dragged her through the room and into the one she had first woken up in. Katrina clenched her teeth as he grabbed a spare chair, and shoved her into it. She ground her teeth as he moved to grab something to bind her with, because _again_ she had been rash, and _again_ she was being punished for it. When would she learn?

Instead of the familiar, rough touch of some sort of cloth, Katrina felt _irons_ being slapped around her wrists. She looked back, shocked, then gave a frustrated sigh. Of course he would put her in irons. Those couldn't be wiggled out of.

He stalked away from her after that. Katrina waited until she couldn't hear him before she let herself lose the proud tension in her shoulders. The memory of his wrath, coiled tight and vicious in his chest, pressing at her skin, demanding that she suffer, was so surreal that it made her laugh. She turned her face into her shoulder to muffle the sound, because she realized that she sounded hysteric and hated the loss of control.

Katrina remembered the last stanza to the song she had been singing, just before her bid for freedom.

_Let Faith exalt her joyful voice,  
And now in triumph sing:  
"O Grave, where is thy victory?  
And where, O Death, thy sting?"_

Katrina broke into tears.

* * *

She did not eat for another day and a half. The Horseman seemed to know that she struggled the most with the physical aspect of this world, and was acting upon it accordingly. She almost wished she was back in Purgatory, because at least there she didn't feel like her insides were disappearing.

Her wrists ached. The shackles didn't bother the injuries as much as cloth might have, but they still pressed up against them, making her wince every time she shifted.

She realized she had bruises from where he had grabbed her, and from being dragged back through the window. Katrina almost wished she could pull her dress up to see how bad it was, but she was also afraid. Afraid of what she might see, and what the Horseman might do if _he_ saw.

She missed Ichabod.

* * *

The next time she ate, he was Abraham again. She watched him blankly, not recognizing the importance of his clothes, refined, nobleman's cloths, and not the worn armor of Death.

He draped the necklace around her again, but Katrina had eyes only for the apple he had set on the table. This one was green, sharp and delicious.

"Water, first," he said, holding out the skin to her. Katrina blinked, and realized he had undone her bonds again. She reached for it, hands feeling strange after so much inactivity. She fumbled with the water skin, ignoring the gentle trickle that escaped her mouth and went down her neck. Abraham's eyes followed the water.

When she was done, she looked at him, wary and almost accusing. His gaze did not change too much, but an unamused smile stretched his lips. He was leaning against the table, casual as could be, like they were spending the afternoon in the parlor, and were discussing the latest bits of conversation.

"Do you enjoy this?" he asked, like she was _making_ him hurt her, like she was _asking _to be starved and confined from the world.

"I would enjoy it better if I was able to move," she countered, not even bothering to quibble over the nuances of his ethics. Abraham tilted his head back as he chuckled, as if saying _Oh, I see_. He picked up the apple and produced a knife, and began cutting off slices for her. Katrina took them, hating the dependence he forced on her. The apple was almost delicious enough to make her forget her anger, though, tart and juicy.

"If you didn't constantly try to _fight_, there would be no need to keep you in place," he said, voice light enough. She still felt the granite undertones. "Let me help you, Katrina. I don't want you to have to go through this."

Katrina had to look away from him then, because he sounded _so sincere._ She could have almost believed him, if she wanted.

* * *

One thing she would never be able to get used to was having to do everything at _night._ He did not trust her to do anything by herself yet, which made sense enough. That did not mean she at all appreciated being shaken roughly awake in the despicably early hours of the morning.

Katrina kept silent as he led her out of the storage room, and out into the open air. Before they left, he handed her a lamp. She took it with shackled hands, wondering what it was for if not to light their way. Whatever their journey was for, Katrina was just glad to be _moving,_ getting up and breathing air not laced by dust and her own tedium. She glanced around as they walked, trying to discern something of the rough tree line, but it was too dark for her to see anything. Katrina kept glancing at the ground in a vague hope of being able to see the route before her, but the Horseman had no such problems. She didn't know if it was because he was born of the darkness, or if he simply was not restricted by human senses without a human head, but his purposeful steps carried him on quickly, and she had to occasionally break into a clumsy run to catch up. Clearly, the candles and lamps lit in the house were meant for her.

In a few short moments, he brought them to a stop before a much smaller building. From the vague smell of animal, she assumed it was a stable. Her heart quickened as she wondered if she was to ride somewhere with him, and if so, why. What plan could he possibly have that required her to leave the house? To bait Ichabod? That certainly didn't make sense, because seeing her would only renew the hellfire that was his determination.

A set of torches burned inside the stables, cutting through the gloom ever so slightly. The stables weren't very big, with only half a dozen stalls or so. At the far end, she could see his mount, fearsome and snowy white in the way a wicked thing had no right to be. Katrina began to move toward the horse, but stopped when it looked at her and told her to _stay away._ She glanced back at the Horseman, and noticed that he had stopped near the door. She turned to face him as he reached up for a torch, and held out his hand. She glanced down, and handed over the lamp. He deftly lit it, then replaced the torch. Katrina took the lamp back from him, a little confused now. He simply watched her, though, giving no indicator what he wanted her to do now. Was this his idea of a treat, taking her out to the stables in the middle of the night, a trip to make her day more interesting?

Katrina turned back to face the horse, then caught sight of the large tub in the first stall. A washtub. Beside it was a stool, over which was draped a set of clothes. He had taken her out here to bathe.

Her breath caught, first in hopeful disbelief, then in flat horror. She glanced from the Horseman to the stall, biting the inside of her cheek. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded, and the stall wall was solid wood paneling, and seemed to be high enough to hide her from him.

Katrina closed her eyes and moved into the stall. She set the lamp in the trough, which allowed enough light to spill over so that she could change. If he was going to do something, he was going to do it whether she was wearing clothes or not.

Katrina had almost forgotten what bathing felt like, but now it seemed like a holy glory. She had ducked down to change out of her clothes, breathing in the scent of hay and stale horses, but soon enough she was in the water. She pressed her forehead against her knees, trying not to cry, from both the cold and the churned up mess that was her emotions. It was a little shameful, how thankful she was over a _bath._ But thankful she was, and she absolutely refused to squander any privileges he was willing to give her. Not until she was certain of a plan.

The tub was small, not really meant for a person, but she could sit reasonably comfortably if she bent her legs. She didn't have any soap to use, but scrubbing her fingers over her skin and in her hair was enough. Katrina washed away the tears and the anger and dirt that had accumulated, reveling in the opportunity to become clean, regardless how cold and uncomfortable it was.

Katrina took a large breath, and leaned down in the water. She bent her legs completely so she could submerge her head, as if she could soak away all of the thoughts clattering around her head. It was peaceful, even if it was dark and cold. They were her old friends by now, the things that always seemed to find her, no matter where she went. That and misfortune. But she didn't mind them now, the cold and the dark were almost peaceful. She could almost forget—

Katrina was suddenly jerked up out of the water by her hair. She gasp as she broke the surface, struggling to orient herself. The cold air felt like needles on her skin, each ragged breath seemed to burn her throat, and her body protested at contorting to try to alleviate some of the pain in her head. Her hands automatically sprang up to grab her hair, a small attempt to take the weight off of it.

_"The hell are you doing?_" she demanded, not even bothering to look at the Horseman. Then a thought hit her and she snapped her arms down to cover herself.

Katrina craned her neck to stare at him, anger and pain and sudden terror all leaping up her throat, but he seemed as impassive as ever, looming over her. The front of his uniform was wet from her splashing, and he had her hair in his hand, but there didn't seem to be any new, terrible intent.

He let her go, and she twisted to face him, snatching for her dress to hide herself from him. But he didn't make another move toward her, just turned to go back to his previous post. Katrina stared after him for a long moment, confused and relieved and still so, _so_ scared. After a moment, she slowly sat back down. She dropped her dress to the side of the tub, but found that she couldn't unclench her hand from it.

He had thought she was trying to drown herself. Katrina's throat was too tight to give laughter _or_ tears.

She stepped out of the tub and dried off with her dress, twisting as much water as she could from her hair and then winding it in some sort of braid. Then she turned to the clothes he had set out for her. They were made of a thick, sturdy fabric, and were almost soft from use. Katrina tied the belt around her waist to keep the trousers from falling down, then examined herself. She felt a little odd, wearing trousers, but that was something she could ignore (there was also the benefit of being easier to move around in, which would make running away a little easier, should she need it). Besides, wearing trousers was nothing compared to knowing that these were very likely his clothes, the make familiar and very much out of place in this world.

She closed her eyes and took a long breath after she had pulled on her boots, praying for strength. Katrina then stood up, picked up her dress and the lamp, then walked out of the stall. Neither one of them attempted to acknowledge what happened.

* * *

It seemed like he did listen to her when she spoke, because the next day, Katrina found herself being escorted through the house again. It was twilight, so she could see reasonably well, but then he had opened a door, revealing a wretched blackness. She pulled back, glancing at him, and then he handed her a candle. Katrina took it, clutching it like it was her only source of comfort in the world.

She went first down what she now saw was a staircase, almost certain she could feel his very presence brush against her back. There weren't very many stairs, and soon enough, she found herself standing in some sort of cellar. It was cool, but not cold like the house became at night. It also felt very, very dark. As she moved farther in, Katrina realized there was post driven into the ground. It was about waist high, and there was a chain connected to the top. And connected to the chain…was a harness. It reminded her of an ox harness, but this was entirely metal, and sized to fit…around a person's waist.

Katrina turned back to look at the Horseman, unsure if she felt alarmed or resigned. She no longer needed him to gesture or push her to walk toward the post. He was quick in settling the harness around her waist, and once there, she could have dismissed it for an especially heavy set of skirts. Except it was metal, and connected to a chain.

The Horseman left after that. Katrina didn't bother testing her new restraints, because she knew he would never be so careless with her. Instead, she walked around the cellar, exploring what she may. The chain was just long enough that she could reach the far walls and first step of the staircase, but not the corners. At least she was now able to walk. A sleeping pallet sat pressed against one wall, up off the ground to avoid the worst of the cold. A pile of blankets sat on top, waiting for her to arrange them. And beside the pallet, a small bag of food.

_Rewards for my good behavior,_ she thought darkly. She sat heavily on the pallet, and tried to eat a piece of dried meat from the bag.

The solitude gave her a false sense of security, though. The next day, Katrina tried again to free herself. She had reasoned that being underground meant the Horseman wouldn't be able to hear or feel her magic. So she tried singing a spell to break one of the links in the chain, the words strange and lovely on her tongue. It was an old tongue, one that reminded that Katrina she was a witch and that she had power, even in the face of Death.

Midway through her second repetition, he came in and gagged her. Katrina supposed that was what she got, for being so careless. It felt almost customary, like he had expected her to make another bid for freedom, and could hardly begrudge her for the effort. There was no wrath in his touch, and he did not bind her up even more. He also allowed her the rest of her meals.

This, Katrina supposed, was progress.

* * *

Once a night, the Horseman would come visit, or sometimes it might be Abraham. If the Horseman, he would leave her whatever she needed, such as blankets, food, candles, and the like. Abraham was a very different sort of presence, quiet in a living way, not like he was holding his breath for eternity. He was also far more devastating when displeased, because whereas the Horseman would only tie her up or throw her into a wall, Abraham could _look_ at her, fill her up to the brim with his displeasure until she thought she might be sick. But that did not happen often. Katrina was learning.

One time, before the Horseman left, Katrina raised her voice.

"I could mend it, if you want."

He paused just before the stairs, listening.

"Your coat. The, er, bullet holes, and the cuts. I could…I could mend them. If you wanted."

Katrina dropped her eyes as he turned to look at her, and soon enough, he was walking back up the steps.

The following night, Abraham came with the red coat and a pocket full of thread and some needles. She smiled at him as he handed it to her, immensely thankful for something to pass the time with. Abraham watched her work, voice thoughtful as he spoke. It was familiar, and yet entirely ludicrous. She sat on her pallet, in old set of men's clothes, mending the coat of one of the Four Horsemen, speaking personally to Death, and yet the conversation was something she had expected to find when sitting in the von Brunt drawing room.

She sewed until she felt too exhausted to continue, handing the coat, thread, and needle over to Abraham. He inspected her handiwork, then gave her a proud smile. He touched her cheek and bid her farewell.

It was only after he had left that Katrina considered that he had stayed to make sure she didn't try to sew a spell into the fabric. That was wise. It would have been wiser to make sure that she had handed back both needles, though.

* * *

Her sense of time was fairly twisted. The dark of the cellar was complete, though she reasoned that every couple of days he took her out to bathe. As the nights lengthened, however, the Horseman had taken to leading her up to the main level and allowing her to wander a couple of rooms (under his supervision, of course). She thought she had spent several weeks there, as not only had the nights lengthened, it had become much colder than it had been at first. Frost laced the ground every time she went to take her bath, but she always took a few extra seconds to look at his horse and acknowledge it. It was slowly coming around, _slowly_. Then she would continue on, and bathe as fast as she could to limit the amount of time she spent exposed. To compensate for the cold weather, the Horseman brought her more clothes and blankets. It was a fairly tolerable arrangement they had fallen to, one that Katrina worked ceaselessly to escape from.

* * *

Once, when she was on the main level with the Horseman, Katrina realized that there were bloodstains on his clothes and hands. They were new, nearly scarlet in the candlelight. The thought made her stomach clench.

"Where—where are those from?" she asked, voice just a squeak. Of course, she knew he couldn't answer, but the shift in his stance was all she needed. It was condescending, arrogant, a god weighing a mortal in his palm

"What were you out doing?" she continued, terror loosening her tongue. She couldn't remember the last time she had actually challenged the Horseman. "Who was it? Did you—did you kill someone else?"

Another thought hit her, and she looked down at her shirt. Sure enough, there were dull red smudges on the fabric, from where he had undone the harness. Nausea rolled through her, even though she had been a nurse on the battlefield, even though she had held men's innards in as they wept and called her their beloved's name. This was blood tainted by Death, people who had no expectation of going so soon, or in such a horrid manner.

"Tell me, what happened?" she said, voice raising. She had been so foolish, thinking that he had stalled his duties to Moloch just because he had been guarding her, just because she had been locked away and unable to see the after effects. He was cleverer than she had dared admit. Despite her best efforts, she had begun to forget that he was Death.

"It can't have been Ichabod, or Abbie Mills, can it? Did you hurt them? _Tell me!_" Katrina demanded, suddenly so angry at herself and at him that she lost all caution. Katrina slammed her hands into his chest, feeling sick at how he didn't even rock back at the blow. Instantly, he had snatched up her hands, holding them tight enough to make her wince.

"Let _go_ of me!" she snarled, kicking at him and twisting out of his grip. She whirled away from him, unable to even consider looking at him, tall and broad and so dreadfully _headless_. Her hands were clenched in her skirts as she stormed away, but then the sound of his quick, lethal step punctured her rage. Katrina glanced back and saw him striding toward her, and she broke into a run, hiking her skirts up around her knees.

She felt his hand skate across her back, but she shoved it away, suddenly terrified of his touch. He shoved her forward, slamming her into a table. The breath was knocked out of Katrina, but she was instantly scrambling to straighten back up, to get away from him. He slammed her down again, though, hand planting on her shoulders and making her arms go out from under her as she was rammed flat against the table.

She dug her fingers into the wood, hands shaking from the strain. His hand was now forcing her head down, staining her breaths with the smell of the wood finish and dust and fear. Katrina clenched her hands as he pressed against her, his legs brushing hers. She prayed that she would make it through whatever happened, that it would be quick and not too terrible and that the scream building in her throat would come out as a cold hard blade, and not a confession of her fear.

He shifted, and Katrina realized that he wasn't just holding her head down, he…had his hand in her hair. She held her breath, heart pounding in her ears as he ran his hand through her hair, slow and deliberate. There was something in his fingertips, and had he still retained his soul, she might have called it love. Now, it was just _possessive._

The Horseman moved again, going from behind her to beside her. She shuddered out a breath, feeling his hip against hers and his hand push all of her hair away from her neck. She shivered at the sudden chill on her skin, but didn't dare move otherwise. One hand was clenched in her hair, the other trailed a finger along her neck, exploring it, marveling in it. Katrina closed her eyes and pressed her lips tight when she realized he was drawing the line where his own neck ended.

He ran his hand through her hair again, fingertips dragging against her skull. Katrina steeled herself, and tried standing up. He pushed her back down, but this time, he was almost gentle. She closed her eyes, knowing what it was he wanted.

"Please," she whispered, "please let me up."

He pulled his hands away, and she shakily straightened. Katrina walked back to the cellar without a backwards look.

* * *

She was coming to know his horse. It wasn't much, just a word or a look when she went to bathe, but eventually, it let her keep its gaze as she whispered the spell that was a hello.

It was a proud, powerful beast, though, one that hadn't known much more than the hard necessity of completing its work, and her attempts at affection and enchantment seemed to roll off its coat before much sank in. She wanted to go touch it, to press her care into its skin, but she was afraid of what the Horseman might do. He hadn't noticed her brief, simple magic so far, but if she made an open move toward it, she knew she would be caught.

Katrina also knew just how jealous he was. Who knew what would happen when a bond formed between the only things that he claimed as his.

* * *

When he wasn't with her, Katrina sewed herself a pocket. She carefully tore sections from her black dress, using it both as cloth and a form of string, and stitched it all together. Finishing the pocket itself had taken about a day, but attaching it to the inside of one of her shirts had taken much longer. First, she had had to tear it out when she resigned herself to the fact that the black would inevitably show through the white fabric. Then, it had taken her a cursedly long time to figure out how to attach it to the inside of her bodice without it showing, and without it being horridly uncomfortable. When she reached the final stretch, her work became fast and excited, hands tugging at the needle at a stunning speed. Of course, that just meant she stabbed herself in the thumb when the Horseman nearly walked in on her.

She stuffed the stolen needle into one of the dress seams, and acted like she was folding the dress up when he finally came into her line of sight. She cast him a curious look, praying that he could not heart her heart skitter against her ribs.

He stalked toward her, then reached down and took hold of her arm. She stood, frowning at him as he took her hand. He ran his thumb along her palm like it was a precious thing. It made her feel guilty.

Then the moment was gone, and he reached for something in her pocket. A moment later, a bracelet was dropped onto her palm. It was made of black ribbon, with a small white pendant attached to it. Dismay flooded through Katrina, and she opened her mouth, wondering how one refused trinkets from Death, then she realized the bracelet was throbbing. She stared at it, disconcerted to find that with each pulse, a little bit more of her hand went numb. This was dark magic, dark, _dark_ magic, the darkest a person could possibly do without consorting with the Devil himself.

She looked back at him, unsure as to what he wanted her to do. Then the Horseman picked up the bracelet, and fastened it around her wrist. She frowned at it, then gasped when she felt the pendant settle into her skin, like someone had pressed their finger inside her wrist. Katrina turned her hand experimentally, but the pendant did not fall away from her skin, even when it faced the ground.

"What do you want me to do to with it?" she asked, scared by this bracelet and all it had seen. The Horseman didn't answer, just turned around and walked back up the stairs.

Katrina sat on her pallet and stared at her wrist for a long time. The pendant no longer made her skin numb, but it did make her feel very, very nervous. It felt like a live thing, staring at her and storing away all of her secrets. She placed her fingers on it, hoping to take it off. The pendant was settled over both ends of the ribbon, though, and when she tried to prize the pendant away from her skin, it pressed into her wrist even harder.

It was probably ridiculous, but she did not pull out her dress and work on her pocket while she had the bracelet on. She laid down and stared at the pendant, trying to understand why the Horseman had made her wear it. This was not like the necklace, meant to allow them to talk. This bracelet was wicked, meant to feast on men whenever it may.

She turned her face away when she realized that the pendant was made out of bone.

Several days later, not long after the Horseman had come back and taken the bracelet off her, Katrina felt a throb of magic in the air. It was from far away, but potent enough to make her retch where she sat. That was when it all made sense. She had been left to guard the bracelet, or nurture it, or whatever, in preparation for whatever devilish magic had just been performed. She curled up on her pallet at that, and fervently prayed that Ichabod was alright.

* * *

It was time for another escape. Or at least, time for the next big step of one. Katrina had tied her skirt around her waist, almost uncertain at the sight of her long, pale legs. She then knelt down and held her chain close to her mouth, whispering prayers and promising and magic into it, _begging_ it to let her go. She had given up her old way of magic, with the old tongues and the power that seeped through her blood. She was basic and mundane, now, escaping the Horseman's notice at all costs. The chain reluctantly clicked apart, and Katrina almost cried from relief.

She crept up the stairs, braced herself, then cracked open the door. The Horseman was nowhere in sight. It was about predawn, the sun coming to rise sometime within the next quarter hour. A quarter hour in which he could freely come get her.

Katrina eased off the cellar steps, and creeped through the house. Her heart was frantic, and she wasn't sure she could breathe right, but there she was, easing out the door.

Now was the hard part.

Rather than tear down the road and not look back, Katrina hurried to the stables. She did not waste the seconds to examine the building in daylight, but instead walked straight to his horse. It regarded her with careless, demonic red eyes, because she had never come close before. But she pushed away her fear, and place her hand on its nose, and pressed its face close to hers. She whispered to it, greeting it like an equal, because this horse could be her end. She stroked its head, pouring all the love and magic she could imagine through her skin and into its. The horse rumbled and turned its head away, not sure what to do with such a flood of emotion, but when it snuck another look at her, she knew she had it.

She kissed her fingers and touched them to its side in farewell, then left the stables. She walked quickly, _feeling_ the Horseman rouse. She didn't know if it was because he sensed her conversing with his horse, or if he felt the magic she was weaving, or if he just knew how she changed the air around her, but he was coming after her and she had to go fast.

Katrina paused before an azalea bush, the green leaves almost strange against the dull greys and browns of early winter. She grabbed the lightest colored leaves she could find, then tucked them away into the pocket she had made in her dress. She hurried forward, feeling the Horseman come closer, storming through the house to find her.

She clawed pieces of bark off of a pine, the sap smelling clear and heady, and sticking underneath her fingernails. She grabbed a handful of dried snowberries, their shriveled forms grating against her hand as she shoved them in the pocket.

Katrina could hear him now, and she started running, legs moving faster than she had ever thought possible. Sticks snapped against them, stinging and sometimes even drawing blood, but she kept _going_, feeling the Horseman's footfalls in her very bones. He was closer, closer, each step bigger than hers, he was going to catch her, her stomach was tying itself in knots, he was going to _catch her_, she didn't know what she would do when he laid hold of her again—

His hand grabbed the back of her dress, jerking the air out of Katrina's lungs. She was screaming but she couldn't stop as he grabbed hold of her shoulders and tried to make her be still. He was wearing only a loose shirt, the front falling open to show his chest as she struggling and writhed, trying to shove herself away from him. The sun had almost risen, if she could just last a little longer, she might not need her plan anyways, she could just _run_—

Katrina clawed at his chest, and she could feel his skin bunch underneath her fingernails. Black blood pooled up on the scratches, and he grabbed her hair like nothing had happened to him. He jerked her head back, and she realized that she was still screaming, but now she was almost crying, straining away from him because she was afraid of what he might do, afraid of the fury he might rain down on her head.

He grabbed her up, holding her flat against his chest. She kicked and tried to push his arms away, but his grip was absolute, crushing the air from her lungs. Katrina sobbed, hating that she had allowed herself to _again_ be captured by him, especially when she could have just _run away._

The sun broke through the trees, catching the Horseman full on. He winced and turned away, and Katrina renewed her struggle. She managed to make her feet, and even take a few steps before he grabbed her by the hair again, and yanked her back toward him. He wrapped an arm around her, practically pinning Katrina to his side, then threw her inside. She fell hard as he slammed the door shut, and scrabbled backward as he turned to face her.

She was suddenly very, very thankful he did not have a voice to lance her with.

* * *

It was a couple days before he unshackled her again. The moment he had left the cellar, she broke into a smile, grimly satisfied with her work. She had also gone and vomited in her chamber pot, because she had not just seen Death, she had been lashed to his chest to the point of not being able to breathe. She had been exposed to just a fraction of his terrible glory, and yet she was allowed to live. It made her hands shake.

It was worth it, though. The supplies tucked up against her breast reassured her, each little piece promising real freedom. When he finally allowed her the use of her hands, Katrina pulled out her supplies with shaking hands. She neatly ordered the leaves and the berries and the bark, weaving a spell around them with a wicked focus. Finally, she scraped his skin out from under her fingernails, and dropped them on top of the spell. Katrina was nearly sick again, but she did it.

It was four days before she was allowed to go take a bath. She tried not to think about the black blood matted in her hair.

* * *

She didn't often dream, but when she did, they were all nightmares about being in Purgatory, watching Ichabod suffer, being of no use and trapped for forever. That night, when she fell asleep, she dreamed about Abraham. Except, he didn't feel like Abraham. He felt like the Horseman, cold and harsh and horridly efficient. He grabbed her arm and kissed her, pressing his lips against her neck. Katrina tried to push away, but her arms wouldn't work right, barely able to move from her sides. His lips went up her neck, against her jaw, and then they were on her mouth. She tried screaming, but no one could hear, no one else was there, it was just her and Abraham and death seeping into her mouth.

Then she realized he was holding a knife, and he started to cut off her head as he kissed her.

Katrina awoke screaming. She flailed out, still trying to knock him away. But he wasn't there, he wasn't there, he _wasn't there._ Katrina wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to squeeze her heart back into a normal rhythm. She pointedly did not pay any attention to the fresh foot prints by her head, like someone had come down to check on her when she had been screaming.

* * *

It was supposed to be a group spell, but now it was just her, chanting the words over and over and over. It was supposed to take an hour. It had been three days.

Katrina laid on her pallet, not seeing anything as she muttered the words, hardly even understanding them anymore. The things she had collected weren't magic in and of themselves, they were just containers for whatever she felt and flooded into them. She knew this, but she wasn't even sure if the spell was magic anymore, as it had been five days, and the Horseman had not come to stop her. He couldn't feel the magic, and she couldn't feel anything.

Seven days, and _finally_, she could drop her blood on the figure she had wound together out of leaves and bark and the Horseman's skin and her own hair. At least, it was supposed to be blood. But the thing that had landed were tears, because she was tired and scared and empty and desperate, and so very _sick_ of being all those things for so long. The tears worked, but she hated that he got something so personal.

This time, it took her so very long to coax the chains to let her go. It had felt the Horseman's fury just as she had, and now was reluctant to give in to her. But it did, and she spared herself a long breath. Then she turned to her spell, picked up a candle, and then set it on fire.

The magic washed over her, filling the air and making it hard for her to breathe. Then she was dipping her fingers into the fire, soaking up its might as it turned her hands gold.

It was not holy fire, but it was as close as she was ever going to get.

Katrina walked up the stairs, stomach clamoring with each step, terrified he would emerge and push her back into the dark. But the magic was strumming through her, making her skin tingle and her fingers buzz and her soul catch fire.

He caught her as she entered the main room, grabbing hold of the back of her shirt. She clawed at him, tearing at his chest and arms and hands. He fell back when her fingers seared into his skin, the sound loud and terrible and so, _so _very satisfying. He tried to grab her again, but Katrina shoved them against his chest, making him fall back and curl in on the wound.

"Leave me be, Abraham," she said, but it only came out as terrified, because she didn't know how long this would last, or if it only affected him, or if it would really ever matter. The Horseman straightened at that, recognizing the first time she had ever addressed him as the man when not seeing his face.

"Leave me be. Please, just _leave me be,_" she said, backing towards the door. He did not move until she had left the building, and began sprinting down the lane. She heard him behind her, not pursuing her directly, but heading toward the stables, to his horse. Katrina would have collapsed from gratefulness, except she was running for her life, desperate to get away. She could feel his horse pound after her, hoof beats shaking the world, rattling her insides loose. When his mount saw her, it shied, bucking and holding him back. She was crying, her heart shrieking and legs threatening to come loose with each step and magic having completely left her fingers and very soul feeling like little more than rubble and breath rattling in out in out but the horse, her blessed, _beloved_ horse, would not betray her.

Katrina ran until she thought she would be sick, but she made the road, and she found someone in a mechanical carriage that would stop for her, and she found the police station. She had Death's silent shriek carved upon her soul, but she had made it out. She had made it out. She had escaped Death.


End file.
